The small, dusty town of Cotija lies in south central Mexico, a region
where the Cristero War (1926-32) saw some of its fiercest fighting. Cristero
forces were a cross section of Catholics who rose against a Marxist regime that
had been murdering priests with impunity. In 1932, when the Vatican helped
broker a truce, Marcial Maciel Degollado was a boy of 12.

Cotija, the hometown of the Legion of Christ founder, has a retreat
center for Regnum Christi, the lay wing of the order. A tomb for Maciels
mother (whom he nominated for sainthood) is there. The town square has a statue
of his late uncle, Bishop Rafael Guizar Valencia, who led a clandestine
seminary during the Cristero war. Maciel, 86, had been in Cotija for months
before the May 19 Vatican communiqué that stripped him of public
priestly duties after a long investigation into charges of sexual abuse that
shadowed him for many years.

The communiqué offered few facts. The Congregation for the
Doctrine of the Faith decided -- bearing in mind Maciels advanced
age and his delicate health -- to forgo a canonical hearing and to invite the
father to a reserved life of penitence and prayer, relinquishing any form of
public ministry. The Holy Father approved these decisions. Independently of the
person of the founder, the worthy apostolate of the Legionaries of Christ and
of the association Regnum Christi is gratefully recognized.

Benedict humiliated the most famous priest in Mexico and sent shock
waves through the ranks of 60,000 Regnum Christi members in several countries.
These lay folk meet in prayer groups, study Maciels writings and raise
money. It was one of the reasons the Legion was indebted to Pope John Paul II,
who championed Maciel. His words and image (with Maciel) were central to Legion
fundraising.

Months ago, Legionaries working to establish the University of
Sacramento in California, made no mention of Maciel in fundraising letters.

How does a religious order built on a cult of personality -- teaching
children in Legion prep schools and seminaries that the founder is a living
saint -- change its ethos? Will the order rewrite its official history to
correct its blatant fabrications about Maciel? Will the Legion Web site
continue refuting accusations that the Vatican has validated?

Benedict did something rare and unexpected: He openly broke with his
predecessor, internally banishing a priest who was lavishly celebrated by John
Paul. For Juan Vaca, the punishment fell short of the crime. Vaca, 69, is a
former Legion priest who in 1976 sent the first in a series of petitions to the
Vatican detailing allegations of abuse against 20 seminarians. The
Vatican made no mention of us, the victims, he told NCR. I
think the communiqué was concocted with the Legion participating in its
drafting.

Benedicts decision was still an encouraging step, an implicit
admission of the Vaticans failure.

Vaca was one of eight men from Mexico and Spain who filed the case in
1998, a year after Gerald Renner and I investigated Maciels shadowy past
in a story that appeared in the Hartford (Conn.) Courant. A ninth
victim, now deceased, is documented in the materials given to the Congregation
for the Doctrine of the Faith. A tenth man -- who in a long 1996 interview gave
me graphic accounts of his abuse by Maciel -- retracted his statement, four
months later, in an affidavit sent to the Courant the day before the
story of Maciels past was published.

On the Vaticans decision, John L. Allen Jr., NCR Rome
correspondent, citing Vatican sources, wrote that there were more than
20, but less than 100 accusers.

Thats a lot of men testifying to sexual assaults they endured as
boys or young men.

The Legion statement has no hint of apology: Fr. Maciel, with the
spirit of obedience to the church that has always characterized him, has
accepted this communiqué with faith, complete serenity, and tranquility
of conscience. Following the example of Christ, [he] decided not to
defend himself in any way.

A pedophile compared to Christ is hubris more bizarre than anything yet
in the media circus of celebrities or politicians who apologize for disgracing
themselves and keep getting air time. Maciel was never a celebrity. Famous,
yes, but beyond Mexico largely unknown outside orthodox circles. But he was
arguably the most successful fundraiser in the modern church, attracting
millions as Legion schools spread in America and Europe. The Legion used John
Pauls image in mass mailings and in sending seminarians with priests into
private homes to pitch donors. Maciel promoted himself as crusading to uplift
the church in a fallen world. He avoided the media for decades; the
Legions official history is replete with references to enemies of,
misunderstandings about and calumnies against Maciel. Keeping under news radar
was important to Maciel, for any serious scrutiny would raise questions. The
Legion had been operating in Connecticut 30 years with nothing in the U.S.
press about the order when Renner reported in 1996 on psychological control
tactics practiced in Legion seminaries and in Legion fundraising.

Benedict gave the order a chance to strike distance from Maciel.
Instead, by comparing Maciel to a wronged Christ, the Legionaries proved that
Maciel is still in control. The Legion Web site still has links to statements
calling the allegations unproven, attacking the men who brought the
case and Renner and me. The Legions cyberspace record is a case study in
disinformation with leading conservatives -- George Weigel, Mary Ann Glendon,
the Catholic Leagues William Donahue, Fr. Richard John Neuhaus --
defending Maciel and the Legion.

Benedicts decision should cause no one to gloat. Imagine the
bewilderment of those who put their reputations, money and children behind
Maciel and his movement. This is a bomb dropped on them.

There is growing literature in Spanish and English on Legion seminarians
who spy on visitors; parents traumatized by the loss of children to a movement
that prides itself on capturing souls; and the orders
pervasive materialism and quest for money. The order cannot change without a
Vatican intervention.

Neuhaus, the editor of First Things magazine, wrote a 2002
commentary claiming moral certainty that the charges were
false and malicious. He never interviewed the men who
filed the case; but he gave an intriguing clue: A cardinal in whom I have
unbounded confidence and who has been involved in the case tells me that the
charges are pure invention, without the slightest foundation.


Two cardinals collided on the Maciel case: Joseph Ratzinger, now Pope
Benedict XVI, in whose office the case was filed, and Angelo Sodano, the
Vatican secretary of state, who put pressure on Ratzinger to halt the case.
Whoever gave Neuhaus assurance of Maciels innocence in 2002 had no
pretrial evidence, only the complaint. Such rhetoric is a classic example of a
fortress mentality.

That was four years ago, and today Neuhaus is something of a victim; he
must feel misled, if not duped. And his reactions so far are likely a good
barometer for those who similarly are both invested in the Legions
version of Maciels history and trying to make sense of the discipline.

If Ratzinger was his source, imagine Neuhauss conflicted sense of
betrayal. But valid information changes minds; as Cardinal John Henry Newman
wrote, To live is to change. John Pauls myopic support of
Maciel cut hard on Ratzingers ethics. The Congregation for the Doctrine
of the Faith had 700 cases of priests facing laicization in 2004 when he sent
Maltese Msgr. Charles Scicluna to take testimonial evidence. Ratzinger saw
Maciel as a liability to whomever the next pope might be. How could the
congregation punish other priests while sheltering Maciel?

When the news broke, Neuhaus told The New York Times that he
considered Maciel innocent, that the church had erred. Then, on the First
Things Web site, he tried to rationalize Benedicts decision: 
Penitence in this connection does not connote punishment for
wrongdoing. Of course it does. Stripping a priest of public functions
is punishment. Jesuit Fr. Tom Reese lost his job at America when
the Vatican disciplined him. Theologians Fr. Charles Curran and Fr. Hans
Küng were not permitted to teach as Catholic theologians. But
none of them lost his faculties or permission to minister publicly. Anyone who
knows how the Vatican operates also understands that taking an old and revered
figure out of public ministry is severe punishment.

On the First Things Web site, Neuhaus was sinking into
ambivalence. I do not protest this directive implying that Fr. Maciel is
guilty of wrongdoing. It is obvious that CDF and the Holy Father know more than
I know with respect to evidence supporting the guilt or innocence of Fr.
Maciel.

Read on as he sorts out conflicted loyalty: The venerable
spiritual tradition being followed here is that of purification through
suffering, in the confidence that Fr. Maciel will one day be vindicated. There
is ample historical precedent of holy men and women who were unjustly treated
by church authorities. St. Joan of Arc, for an obvious instance. Or the
11th-century saint, Pope Gregory VII, whose dying words were, I loved
righteousness, I hated iniquity, and so I die in exile. 

No one accused Joan of Arc or Gregory the Great of child molesting. The
comparison is unseemly. Neuhaus is apparently unaware of the pain such words
cause men in their 60s and 70s who filed the case in 1998, 22 years after Juan
Vacas pleas to the Vatican were ignored.

Neuhaus speaks no compassion for the suffering of these men, whom he has
scorned. He apparently has little idea what it took for them to kiss the rosary
proffered by Scicluna at a tiny convent in Mexico City 13 months ago, to swear
truth to the Holy See after the churchs long inaction, and speak of
sexual assaults and traumatic memories carried like a cross upon the soul.

Come to the bar of human justice, Father. We are all in this
together.

Jason Berry is coauthor of Vows of Silence, and is directing a
film documentary based on the books account of the Maciel case.